Druantia's Wrath
by jwells101
Summary: Bellatrix survives the Battle of Hogwarts by fleeing deep into the Forbidden Forest. Harry assembles a ragtag group of volunteers and heads in after her, completely unaware of the horrors Bellatrix has awakened.
1. Godric's Quest

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its locations/characters._

 _This is my first ever attempt at writing fanfiction, hope you enjoy!_

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 **2nd May, 998 AD - Black Lake, Hogwarts**

Helga Hufflepuff sighed contentedly as she gazed over the vast expanse of the Black Lake. The cloudless sky and lack of wind gave the surface the appearance of a perfect mirror, making it difficult to tell where the lake ended and the sky began if you looked to the horizon. On the nearest shore of the lake sat around two-dozen students, laughing with one another as they drew sketches of the Grindylows basking in the warm shallows. Some of the more adventurous students had removed their footwear, rolled up their trousers and were splashing around happily, seeing which of them could get closest to a Grindylow before it noticed them and shot away into the weeds.

It has been a little over two years since Salazar and Godric's falling out, an incident that had eventually led to Salazar abandoning the Hogwarts project, claiming it was doomed to fail. At several moments in time since that day, it had seemed that Salazar was right - their collective dream of turning this mystical, seemingly sentient castle into a world-class centre of magical education was absurd. Yet the remaining three founders persevered, collectively overcoming nearly every challenge that came their way - logistics, curriculum, housekeeping, Centaurs.

Unfortunately, they still hadn't come up with a way to banish Peeves or an argument convincing enough to persuade Godric that having that awful, singing hat of his sort the children into houses was a terrible idea. But Helga and Rowena continued to brainstorm about that particular issue.

"Ho, Lady Hufflepuff!" a deep, booming voice called from over her shoulder.

She turned towards the sound of the voice and saw a Centaur galloping his way towards her from the direction of the Dark Forest. She recognised it as Lorian - with his white-blond hair billowing over his shoulders, blue eyes the colour of sapphires gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Lorian was one of the elders of the Centaur clan that resided within the Dark Forest, and the only Centaur she had met that seemed truly comfortable conversing with humans. It was he who had lead negotiations on behalf of the Centaurs when the four founders had initially arrived at the site where they decided to build their castle, and also he who had sort out the founders whenever the Centaurs had issues they wanted to raise.

Last week the Centaurs had found two students blundering about aimlessly just inside the treeline, apparently under the influence of some hallucinogenic berries they had found. Rowena had lectured the students on the dangers of entering the forest unaccompanied by a teacher, whilst Godric had joked that they should rename it the Forbidden Forest. Helga prayed silently that the students had listened and Lorian had some other issue to raise with her - having to escort more intoxicated minors back to the castle would not go down particularly well with the rest of the clan's elders. Dealing with the Centaurs had become a lot more bothersome now that Salazar was no longer here to intimidate them.

"Lorian, my dear friend, what brings you out of the forest this fine day?" asked Helga as Lorian slowed his pace and trotted over to her. All the students were now watching them, apparently deciding that this palomino Centaur was a far more interesting prospect than the Grindylows they were meant to be studying.

"Nothing good I'm afraid, Lady Hufflepuff. The skies grow dim, clouded with smoke and brimstone. I believe it best if I were to continue this conversation in the presence of Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Gryffindor, and not where your younglings can overhear us." responded Lorian gravely, glancing at the students who were now doing a poor job of pretending that they hadn't been eavesdropping on the conversation.

Helga nodded, sensing the serious tone with which Lorian was speaking and quickly dismissed her class with the notice that they had some leisure time before dinner. She then sent off Patronus messages to Rowena and Godric asking them to join her on by the Black Lake urgently, the ethereal badgers shooting away to opposite ends of the castle.

Rowena arrived quickly, soaring down from the tower she had taken for her house in her eagle animagus form. She smoothly transformed upon landing, quietly greeted Lorian before joining Helga in waiting for Godric. It only took a couple of minutes before a red-faced Godric jogged out of the castle's main doors and traipsed over to them, muttering under his breath about the stupidity of holding classes in the dungeons.

"Greetings, Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Gryffindor," Lorian began once Godric had recovered from his tiresome journey. "I come to you today with a message from our elders. Our clan has been reading the skies over our forest for centuries. We have watched the planets predict wars, famine and even your arrival to build your school here".

"What have you seen this time, Lorian?" inquired Rowena.

"That is the problem, Lady Ravenclaw. As I mentioned to Lady Hufflepuff before your arrival, our sight is being clouded. Centaurs will freely admit to misinterpreting the signs of the heavens before, but to not see them at all is almost unprecedented".

"What do mean by 'almost unprecedented', Lorian?" questioned Helga. "Is there a record of this phenomenon occurring before?"

"Not exactly, Lady Hufflepuff," said Lorian, shifting uncomfortably. "One of our clan's oldest tales, passed down from our ancestors is of Epona, also known as the Great Mare. It is said they when the skies grew dark and the heavens locked their gates, that Epona picked up her mighty spear and charged into the heart of abyss at Valynar's Barrow. There are several accounts of what happens next - I doubt any of them are remotely true - but the stories all agree that Epona disappeared and the Centaurs rejoiced, for once again were the heavens open to them."

"Er... well, that's a lovely story for sure, Lorian, but I'm not really understanding why you're reciting it to us." Godric chuckled humorously.

"I tell you this tale because it's happening again, Lord Gryffindor." stated Lorian, as if this were an obvious conclusion.

"And you expect one of us to go gallivanting off into the forest because a millennia-old Centaur fairy-tale says so? No offense, but I'm struggling to see how it's our problem if you lot have to find a different hobby than stargazing." Godric spat angrily. He had never had any patience with Centaurs, that's why he had always let Salazar deal with them when they first arrived here.

"Of course not Lord Gryffindor. We expect one of you to go gallivanting off into the forest because you agreed to in the treaty you signed six months ago." Lorian continued calmly, seemingly oblivious to Godric's quickly worsening temper.

"What are you on about? That treaty clearly states that we only have to intervene if the entire forest is at threat, not help out with every problem you Centaurs can't be bothered to solve on your own." retorted Godric, ignoring the winces coming from both Helga and Rowena at his less than courteous style of diplomacy.

"You are correct of course, Lord Gryffindor. Only when the majoring of our clan's elders consider the entire forest to be under threat will you be tasked with intervention - and as of this morning, we do. This goes beyond our clan being unable to read the heavens. Every tree in the forest whispers about it. Every stream carries warnings of its danger. Animals are fleeing from it, lest they be devoured by its insatiable hunger." Lorian proclaimed, the usual gleam in his sapphire eyes gone.

"What is this it you speak of, Lorian?" breathed Helga, almost scared to hear his answer.

"We do not know exactly. We only hear fragments of what the forest tells us, like trying to hear a whisper in a high wind. What we do know is that the corruption is spreading from Valynar's Barrow - the same spot Epona is said to have perished unlocking the heavens." Lorian replied solemnly.

The three founders looked at each other, none of them sure of how to respond to this mysterious threat.

"Do you mind if we have a couple of minutes to discuss this amongst ourselves, Lorian?" Helga asked, sensing that Godric had some things to say they would probably irreparably damage human-centaur relations if Lorian were to overhear him.

"Of course, Lady Hufflepuff. I will wait for your decision." said Lorian, before trotting off until he was out of earshot.

Godric was inevitably first to speak. "When Lorian talks about something blocking their view of the heavens, are they sure they're looking at the sky? I was gazing at the stars last night with my Astronomy class and could see them just fine."

Rowena sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "I believe Lorian was speaking figuratively, Godric. I'm fairly certain anyway."

"Does that really matter?" hissed Helga. "Surely the real problem here is that the Centaurs expect one of us to pop over to Valynar's Barrow - wherever that it - and somehow rid the forest of this 'corruption' that's troubling it?".

"What are the consequences of telling Lorian to bugger off?" asked Godric, a thoughtful look appearing on his face.

"The Centaur clan will consider us to be in violation of the Dark Forest Treaty of 997 AD and will probably declare war. We have nowhere near the resources nor the manpower for any sort of war, so I suggest you shelve whatever hare-brained idea you've just come up with." snapped Rowena.

"Shit," muttered Godric. "You don't think there's any chance those four-legged bastards are lying to us about this threat do you?"

Helga rolls her eyes at Godric's slur. "No, the treaty we signed was a magically binding contract. They wouldn't ask us to intervene unless they genuinely believed the forest to be under threat. Look, I think it's clear that we're going to have to do something about this, so let's go and see how many more details we can get out of Lorian."

The three founders quickly paced back over to Lorian, who was staring over the surface of the lack much like Helga had done before his arrival. "This lake is a thing of indescribable beauty, my Lord and Ladies. Yet not even it will be safe from the corruption when it reaches here. The surface will grow thick with diseased algae, poisoning those that live beneath its surface, either dooming them to a slow and uncomfortable death or twisting them beyond recognition if they are to find some way of surviving."

Choosing to ignore Lorian's rather depressing train of thought, Helga attempted to steer the Centaur back to a more productive line of thinking. "What can you tell us of Valynar's Barrow, Lorian? Who is Valynar? Where is it located?"

Lorian looked down at the floor, grimacing. "Valynar's Barrow is a place shrouded in mystery, Lady Hufflepuff. The story of Epona does not mention its exact location, nor the identity of Valynar. However, the fact that after Epona's disappearance it has never been found suggests that it lies north of Juturna's Tears, the river that runs through the forest about a day's journey outside Centaur territory. Throughout the centuries, every recorded instance of a Centaur crossing Juturna's Tears ends the same way - the Centaur is never heard from again."

"How is that possible?" questioned Godric. "Surely one of you has made it across and back!".

"I'm afraid not, Lord Gryffindor. Juturna's Tears is not simply a river. It is a boundary, between our side of the forest and whatever lies on the other side. The old stories suggest that once you cross the river, nothing is the same. Cardinal directions cease to exist, the notion of time fades away into nothingness. It is said that there is so much magic in the air that you can taste it on your tongue, that it infuses every living thing. Beasts of folklore and myth are said to roam freely, kept alive by the ancient magicks that have long dissipated into nothing in our world. Perhaps those that cross Juturna's Tears are met with a violent and bloody death. Perhaps they simply get lost, doomed to spend the rest of their lives wondering in circles never able to make it home. Or perhaps that once they cross the river, they no longer have any desire to return and leave out the rest of their lives in peace. My Lord and Ladies, whichever one of you crosses Juturna's Tears in search of Valynar's Barrow, I cannot guarantee your survival. In fact, I would probably bet against it. What I can promise is that your name will be revered by our clan for the rest of time, held up in the same esteem and we do Epona." Lorian ended his speech and turned once again to gaze over the surface of the Black Lake.

"Well, that's good enough for me!" joked Godric, desperately trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Helga regarded him solemnly, but did not argue knowing that Godric was the obvious choice for this dangerous excursion. "Are you sure about this, Godric?"

"I am, Helga. I was born a fighter, and whilst I have enjoyed this brief respite as an educator, I have grown discontent in recent months. My heart longs for battle, the feeling of enemies falling beneath my sword. I'll gather some supplies tonight and set off at dawn tomorrow." Godric replied with a serious not often heard from him, before cracking an inevitable joke. "Hey, you never know - just because every Centaur that's tried crossing this river has gone missing doesn't I will. Have you seen the things I can do with a wand?".

And so the three friends bid farewell to Lorian, and set off back to the castle. The next morning at dawn, Godric bade farewell to a tearful Helga and Rowena and set off towards the Dark Forest where he was to meet with Lorian. Lorian and Godric spent the day trekking through Centaur territory until they reach the point where Juturna's Tears could be easily forded.

Godric Gryffindor crossed Juturna's Tears without looking back.

Thirteen days later, the trees and streams fell silent, no longer warning about the corruption spreading from the heart of Valynar's Barrow.

The Centaur clan celebrated, with Godric's name being immortalised in poem and song.

Godric Gryffindor was never seen again.

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 _AN: Bit of a background chapter, we'll be back in the present day next chapter._


	2. Bellatrix's Flight

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its locations/characters._

 _Should probably point out that in this story, Delphini Riddle doesn't exist._

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 **2nd May, 1998 AD - Great Hall, Hogwarts**

Bellatrix swore as she ducked under a stray Stunner, before pirouetting gracefully and firing back an Entrail-Expelling Curse, giggling maniacally as the boy fell to the ground screaming. He looked young, no older than 16 and wore a camera around his neck. She debated internally whether she should finish him off, but decided it would be more amusing to let him bleed out on the floor, watching on helplessly as his comrades fell around him.

Her eyes were drawn to the Dark Lord, effortlessly duelling against McGonagall, Shacklebolt and Slughorn simultaneously. Spells flew from the end of his wand faster than she could count, the air around him seeming to shimmer from the raw power he was radiating. It was like a dance, with not a single wasted movement as he effortlessly switched between defence and offence. A single swipe of his wand tore out the throats of McGonagall's transfigured wolves before raising them again as viscous Inferi and sending them back at the witch that had created them.

She was briefly reminded of the time Aunt Walburga had portkeyed her and her sisters to a theatre in the magical district of Moscow when they were young girls. There they had watched the world-famous, magical ballerina Ivanova Levski seemingly float around the stage; the graceful movement of her feet seeming just as magical as the beautiful, flowing ribbons of light she was conjuring with her wand. For the next few months, both her and Narcissa had decided that they too wanted to tour Europe as magical ballerinas, ignoring Andromeda's claims that all three of them had inherited their mother's chubby thighs and so such dreams were ridiculous.

She was pulled out of her thoughts as the wailing body of Walden Macnair sailed over her head before hitting the wall with a sickening thud, having apparently been thrown by that half-breed, oaf Hagrid. Merlin knows why they hadn't just killed the brute when he was captured, but apparently her master had wanted to torment him further. As far as she could make out, it had something to do with their time at Hogwarts together and an acromantula. Therefore, that apparently meant that Hagrid had to be kept alive to carry Potter's body back to Hogwarts and now here he was tossing Death Eaters around like they were garden gnomes. She wasn't particularly upset about what happened to Macnair - she knew many considered her to be insane, but at least she didn't get her rocks off beheading various animals - it was more the fact that the Dark Lord's seemingly endless need to monologue and grandstand had once again landed them in trouble.

A small frown marred her face as she considered the situation they were in. It seemed that her master had rather misjudged the blood-traitors' response to Potter's death. Rather than dispiriting them, they seemed to be galvanised, perfectly content to make their final stand and die in battle rather than find their place in her Lord's new order. She sighed, thinking of all the magical blood that she, her fellow Death Eaters and their master would have to spill before the battle's conclusion.

She turned her attention away from her internal musings and zeroed in on her next victims. There were three of them - the youngest Weasley bitch, the Lovegood girl that had been imprisoned at Malfoy Manor and Potter's favourite mudblood, Granger. Her eyes narrowed as the three walked towards her nervously, none willing to cast the first spell. She recalled that these three had all fought alongside Potter at that debacle in the Department of Mysteries, meaning that these three weren't your average Hogwarts student but rather had received a decent level of magical training - likely from Potter, or even Dumbledore before his death.

" _Mucus ad Nauseam!_ " cried Lovegood, starting off proceedings. Bellatrix rolled her eyes as she simply side-stepped the sickly yellow beam. _The Curse of the Bogies? Was this girl taking the piss?_

Fortunately, Bellatrix did not have too long to ponder this, as Granger had conjured a rather impressive flock of yellow canaries that were currently heading straight for her. With a sharp, downwards slash of her wand, Bellatrix incinerated the birds in a wave of purple flames.

Deciding that she had been on the defensive long enough, Bellatrix unleashed a flurry of dangerous curses at the three girls. Curses that severed limbs, curses that broke bones, curses that gouged out flesh. Granger and Lovegood both brought up strong shields covering the trio, whilst Weasley fired two magical ropes back at Bellatrix in an attempt to neutralise her. Calmly watching the ropes sailing towards her, Bellatrix brought up her wand and instantaneously transfigured them both into vipers before banishing them back towards the girls.

Lovegood screamed and staggered off to the side, dropping her wand as she desperately tried to claw at the viper that had attached itself around her throat. Granger had dealt with the second viper, a well-placed _Diffindo_ separating its head from its body, and now ran over to assist Lovegood, leaving Weasley to face off against Bellatrix alone.

Bellatrix stalked towards her victim, a sickly smile appearing on her face as she recognised the look in Weasley's eyes now that she was duelling alone. _Fear._ The girl's wand-hand was shaking, a mixture of sweat and blood slowly ran down her forehead from a small cut at her hairline. Bellatrix let out one of her now signature cackles, knowing that by the time she was through with her, the cut on her forehead would be the least of her worries.

" _St-St-Stupefy!_ " Weasley shrieked, the shaking of her hand meaning the spell sailed high and wide of its target.

A part of Bellatrix wished that the girl would put up some sort of meaningful resistance. At least Andromeda's daughter had gone down fighting - she could still feel the blood dripping down her leg from where her blood-traitor niece had caught her with a Piercing Hex.

Deciding that she had given the teenager enough time to fight back, she conjured an iron spike and banished it, all in the blink of an eye, giggling happily as it impaled the girl through her stomach. A little higher and she would have killed her, but she didn't want Weasley dying just yet.

Two Bone-Splintering Curses found their mark on each of the girl's legs, a Gouging Curse took out her left eye and an _Incendio_ quickly dealt with that pretty red hair of hers, leaving her bare scalp covered in horrific burns. At this point, she was intending to move onto a torrent of _Cruciatus_ curses, but the thought of physically scarring the girl that Potter had apparently loved appealed greatly to her. A ten-foot long flame whip sprouted from the end of her wand, and she lashed the gurgling bag of flesh that had once been Ginny Weasley repeatedly. It was a shame really, that the internal damage her iron spike had done meant that only blood was spraying out of Weasley's mouth, not screams.

Having marked the majority of the girl's body with thin, painful burns from her flame whip, she turned away, intent on finding out what had become of Lovegood and Granger. She spotted them staring at her in absolute horror. It seemed that Granger had been able to deal with the viper, but the bruises beginning to appear on Lovegood's neck spoke of the damage it had done.

Just as the three of them were about to resume their duel, the two girls suddenly found themselves elbowed out of the way as a sobbing Molly Weasley barged her way through to Bellatrix, wand in hand and tears streaming down her face.

"That's my daughter you bitch! _Confringo! Reducto! Bombarda!_ " Molly shrieked, sending the trio of powerful curses hurtling towards Bellatrix.

Bellatrix threw up a shield, but was still sent staggering backwards as the curses collided with it. Her eyes widened at the power behind the spells, watching how grief had transformed this housewife into a magical powerhouse. She braced herself for the next volley, and was preparing to bring up another shield when she saw someone out of the corner of her eye.

Someone she had seen take a Killing Curse to the chest less than half-an-hour ago.

 _Potter?_

" _Depulso!_ " Molly Weasley cried, and Bellatrix wrenched her eyes away from Potter and could only stand there as the Banishing Charm headed straight for her. Usually, a Banishing Charm should have simply knocked her off her feet and thrown her back five or ten yards. This, however, was no normal Banishing Charm.

Banishing Charms are meant to be invisible to the human eye, yet Bellatrix could see the air between her and Molly distort as the mighty, emotionally-powered spell cut its path through it. The moment it collided with her chest, Bellatrix felt several of her ribs breaking and closed her eyes, just waiting for the deadly impact she was about to make with the stone wall behind her.

Luckily for Bellatrix, during her 'duel' with Ginny, she had ended up in front of one of the Great Hall's gigantic stained-glass windows, each of them depicting a scene from the school's storied history (this particular one showed Godric Gryffindor wading across a river with a Centaur watching on sadly from the bank). Therefore, when Bellatrix was blown off her feet by Molly's curse she wasn't splattered all over a piece of masonry, but rather catapulted straight through the window to land rather unceremoniously in the Black Lake.

The shock of hitting the ice-cold water quickly brought Bellatrix to the conclusion that she wasn't dead, and after a tiring swim to the shore, made no easier by her sodden robes or aching ribs, she collapsed on the bank panting. She swore, realising that she had lost her wand somewhere in the lake, but fortunately remembered the spare she was wearing in the holster on her ankle and quickly began drying her robes and repairing the damage done to her ribs.

Once satisfied she was in good enough condition to continue fighting, she stomped back up towards the main doors fully intent on finding Molly Weasley and leaving her in a worse condition than her daughter. Her thoughts ran amok with various sadistic ideas of how she could torture the Weasley matriarch, but these thoughts quickly came to an end as she strode into the Entrance Hall and turned her eyes towards the Great Hall.

Potter stood there alone, a wand in either hand, one of which she recognised as the legendary wand the Dark Lord had plundered from Dumbledore's tomb. A look of shock was upon his face, but one that quickly turned to joy as he was engulfed by a storm of cheering blood-traitors.

Her eyes quickly glanced around the hall, trying to spot her fellow Death Eaters.

She saw Antonin Dolohov, slumped against the wall with his throat cut.

She saw Lucius Malfoy, head bowed and wrapped in chains.

She saw Rabastan Lestrange, her brother-in-law's body being torn to pieces by a pack of conjured dogs.

She saw Rodolphus Lestrange, the man she married gazing at her through sightless eyes.

Her eyes continued to roam around the hall, taking in the carnage before they settled on a bundle of black robes lying near Potter's feet.

 _The Dark Lord._

She fell to her knees, not truly believing what she was seeing. Her mind was reeling, every fibre of her being imploring her master to get back to his feet, to strike down Potter and the throng of people surrounding him.

He didn't.

She climbed back up onto shaking legs, each breath being harder to find than the last. Her chest began to ache as the enormity of what had happened struck her. Against all odds, it seemed that they had lost. _Again_. What happened to her now?

The cold pain in her chest worsened as her mind went back to the years she had spent in Azkaban after the first war: the bitter North Atlantic wind howling through her cold, dank cell; slurping down the sickening, stale gruel they were fed with her rotten teeth; constantly reliving each of her worst memories whenever a Dementor would pass her cell. This time it would be even worse, knowing that there was no Dark Lord out there that would one day reward her for her loyalty.

No, she decided as she turned from the Great Hall and fled - she refused to go back there. But where could she go? She debated trying to make it into Hogsmeade and apparating away, but as she began down the path she stopped. Hundreds of Hogwarts students and their families were wandering down the high street, most of them congregated around the Hog's Head. There was no way she was going to be able to fight her way through all of them.

She span round, desperately trying to figure out where to go when an idea struck her.

The one place they'd never think to look for her. The place where she could hide from both the prying eyes of the Aurors and the Order. The place that seemed to be calling out for her, beckoning her in.

Bellatrix made her decision and ran towards it, never looking back once as she fled deep into the Forbidden Forest.

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 _AN: This is the final sort of prologue chapter, next time we'll be beginning the main story with Harry._

 _Next chapter: Harry's Dreams_


	3. Harry's Dreams

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its locations/characters._

* * *

 **5th May, 1998 AD - 12 Grimmauld Place, London**

 _Harry stands on the bank of a colossal river. The water rushes downstream at a frightening rate, the tops of jagged rocks littering the surface. He wasn't sure what would happen first if he were to fall in. Would he be pulled under by the current and drown? Or would he be dashed to bloody pieces against the rocks?_

 _He gazes over the river to the opposite bank and sees three figures standing there. The distance is too great to make out any details, but it seems to Harry as if they are arguing about something, constantly gesturing towards the river with their arms._

 _"Don't you see Harry? It isn't a pyramid, it's a loop."_

 _He turns and stares at the man standing next to him. Average height, average build. Looked to be in his late fifties, wearing plain, black robes. A shaven head, with a closely-cropped, grey beard. A large scar runs from the corner of his mouth up to just below his eye on the left-hand side of his face. Two grey eyes, brimming with intelligence stare back at Harry._

 _The scene changes. Harry is sat in Dumbledore's office, except that it's Professor McGonagall sat on the other side of the desk. The man with the scar stands off to the side, staring absentmindedly out of a window as though utterly uninterested in the conversation about to happen._

 _"Mr Potter, having consulted with both my colleagues and the remaining governors, I've come to the conclusion that you are the only option for our vacant Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Congratulations on your new job!"_

 _Harry opens his mouth to question the appointment, disbelieving that the school would be willing to hire someone who hasn't sat a single N.E.W.T. examination, but he can force no words out as he sits and stares at McGonagall's smiling visage._

 _The scene changes again, Harry is strolling around the shore of the Black Lake. Kingsley Shacklebolt walks beside him, the scarred man a few paces behind._

 _"Harry, the opinion polls speak for themselves. 88% of the public want you to succeed Thicknesse as Minister for Magic. I simply don't have the political capital necessary to push any meaningful reform through the Wizengamot. We don't have a choice here, it has to be you."_

 _Just like before, Harry is quick to protest this proposition, keen to point out his complete and utter lack of suitability when it comes to Wizengamot politicking and Ministry bureaucracy. Yet again though, he cannot form the relevant words and simply nods his head, all whilst his mind is screaming for him to do the opposite._

 _The scene changes once more, Harry is sat by a bed in the Hogwarts Infirmary. He glances down at the bed's mystery occupant - they're covered head-to-toe in bandages. Molly Weasley sits next to him, the scarred man standing at the end of the bed._

 _"Oh Harry dear, I think it's so sweet you wanted to be here as Ginny is brought out of her coma. I'm already planning your wedding in my head you know."_

 _The thought that his marriage and the rest of his life was being meticulously planned out by Molly Weasley horrifies hit, yet once more he sits there and nods silently, unable to voice his utter distaste at having his life dictated to him once more and shuddering internally as Molly squeezes his hand affectionately._

 _The scene changes one final time. Harry is back in the Great Hall, facing off against Voldemort. Ignotus's cloak is around his shoulders, shimmering in late afternoon sun streaming through the hall's windows. Cadmus's stone sits in a ring on his finger, glinting as he shifts on the balls of his feet. Antioch's wand is in his hand, its power thrumming through him waiting to be unleashed._

 _Harry and Voldemort raise their wands once again, but this time its different. Harry's arm almost buckles from the power he is unleashing. A blast of pure magic erupts from the tip of the Elder Wand, Voldemort's Killing Curse is simply absorbed into it. A spectrum of vivid colour floods the Great Hall as Harry's magic seems to tear apart reality itself before utterly obliterating Voldemort where he stood, not simply killing him but wiping him out of existence._

 _Harry looks around, expecting to see the jubilant faces of his friends, but only the scarred man is watching._

 _"Nobody can hide from Death forever, Harry. Not even its Master."_

Harry sat up in his bed, swearing to himself as he realised he was drenched in sweat. This wasn't the first time he had woken up like this, in fact, he had dreamt a similar dream every night since the Battle of Hogwarts three days ago. He glanced at the watch on his bedside table - 6:13 am. He sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep and stripped off his sweat-drenched pyjamas, put on a dressing gown and stumbled down to the kitchen to see if Kreacher had started on breakfast yet.

He and Kreacher had returned to London yesterday afternoon, no longer feeling he was obliged to hang around Hogwarts now Ron and Hermione had set off on their trip to Australia to retrieve Hermione's parents (and also to explore their new relationship, Harry suspected).

Though he had told those who had asked that he only wanted a couple of days to himself and he would return to the castle shortly, in reality, he had no idea of how long he planned to hole up here. He didn't see returning to 12 Grimmauld Place as a temporary reprieve, but rather a much-needed escape.

He despised the way people fell silent when he entered a room, gazing at him as if he were a particularly interesting exhibit in a zoo. His mind flashed back to the boa constrictor he had accidentally liberated all those years ago, watching as the snake slithered away at the first sign of freedom. _Will I ever have a chance of real freedom? Or is hiding away in Grimmauld Place simply exchanging one prison for another?_

"Master has been dreaming again," remarked Kreacher as Harry slumped down into one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. With a snap of the house-elf's gnarled fingers, a steaming cup of black coffee, a warm bowl of porridge and a small vial of nutrient potion prescribed by Madam Pomfrey appeared in front of him.

Harry chose to ignore Kreacher's mutterings and began eating, thinking back on the events of the last three days as he did so.

The jubilation and sheer relief he had felt immediately after killing Voldemort had quickly given way to grief when he realised just how many had died on the side of the light. The deaths of Tonks, Remus, Fred and Colin Creevey had hitten him particularly hard.

He had wanted to simply find a secluded spot in the castle and let all his emotions fly out, sobbing out his grief and taking out his anger on some innocent pieces of furniture. Yet he had been unable to, hardly being left alone for a single minute with either Hermione or Ron (presumably on Hermione's orders) constantly shadowing him when he managed to slip away from the crowds of the Great Hall or Infirmary. _Did they really think him to be so weak that he couldn't be trusted to spend time on his own without damaging himself?_

For a couple of days, it seemed likely that Ginny's name would join the long list of the dead, but long hours of intensive magical surgery from Madam Pomfrey had managed to stabilise her. She had been transferred to St. Mungo's yesterday morning where she would remain in a magically-induced coma whilst healers essentially regrew the majority of her internal organs. It was a process estimated to take several weeks, and even after this, it was suggested that she would need to send many months visiting with a Mind Healer before she was well enough to be reintegrated into everyday life.

He had felt strangely numb when he first learnt of Ginny's injuries. It seemed that the months he had spent away from her on the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes had slowly eroded away his feelings for her; memories of the lazy afternoons they had spent together by the Black Lake seemed bizarre and unreal. The Harry Potter that had dated Ginny at the end of his sixth year was gone, destroyed by the war and the changed man that came out the other side had no desire to restart their romantic relationship as if nothing had happened.

Considering this, Ginny's injuries had been both a blessing and a curse: a blessing in the sense that whilst she was unconscious Harry could put off having an incredibly awkward conversation about their relationship with her; and a curse because he wasn't sure how he could convince her he didn't want to begin dating again for reasons other than her potentially life-changing injuries. He couldn't think of a way to break the news to her without the entire Weasley family hating him, and he wasn't entirely convinced that he didn't deserve their ire. _What I need to do is cruel, but would it not be crueller to continue a relationship built on a fundamental lie?_

He had spent a few hours sitting by her bed on the first day, making idle conversation with various members of her family. Another positive of Ginny's condition was that it seemed to distract the Weasley family from mourning Fred's death. Crushed to death by a piece of falling masonry, Fred was due to be buried in the orchard behind the Burrow - as per Weasley family tradition - early next week. Harry had walked through the orchard several times over the years, never realising that each fruit tree had been planted directly over the grave of a family member in lieu of a tombstone. Molly had told him that Fred would be laid to rest next to Fabian and Gideon Prewett, her two younger brothers that had been killed in a Death Eater ambush lead by Antonin Dolohov during the first war.

Harry still hadn't decided whether he was going to attend the funerals of the various friends that had died. He hated the thought of showing up and instantly becoming the centre of attention, all eyes on him as he tried to grieve for those he had lost. Perhaps he should attend under his cloak he mused. Or perhaps he just shouldn't go at all and visit their graves later when he could have some solitude.

He wondered to himself whether he truly didn't want to distract attention away from the deceased, or was he just looking for further excuses not to confront those that wanted to speak to him. This line of thought quickly brought him back to the contents of the dreams of the last few nights. They were always similar, a succession of scenes where Harry was forced to watch on silently as he had various responsibilities thrust upon him, never being able to argue or protest the decisions. A job at Hogwarts, being voted in as Minister, marrying Ginny, fighting crime as the face of the new Auror Department, Andromeda informing him that it was his responsibility to raise Teddy.

How he loathed that word - _responsibility_. Had he not played his part already? His entire life had been carefully orchestrated by Dumbledore, all leading up to Voldemort's demise. Now he had slain the demon, but it still seemed to him as if people _still_ expected him to save the day. _What do I know about politics? Or marking essays? Or raising children?_

He realised that some of his fears were probably unfounded. No one had come up to him to offer him a job or thrust a bawling, baby metamorphmagus into his arms. Yet he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that people still had plans for him, schemes of their own that they couldn't carry out unless he was forced into playing a certain role.

He had overheard some of the excruciating long discussions Kingsley had been holding these last few days as he scrambled to cobble together some form of working government. He had quickly appointed Arthur and Percy Weasley as his Senior and Junior Undersecretaries respectively, alongside a few other trusted ministry officials that had survived the war. They now had the extremely difficult task of not only rebuilding a country that had suffered its second civil war in as many decades, but also wiping out centuries worth of prejudice and social inequality, something the Fudge administration had promised and failed to do. He suspected that sooner, rather than later, Kingsley would seek him out to make the same request Scrimgeour had at the beginning of his administration, wanting him to become some sort of poster boy for the Ministry. He was probably less keen on the idea now than he was when Scrimgeour asked him at the Burrow - was it really that hard to run a country without having his face plastered all over the Ministry?

He had also seen the calculating looks directed at him by both Professor McGonagall and newly-appointed Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Gawain Robards. These looks had only grown more longing once it had been revealed by Neville Longbottom that the student resistance inside the castle against Amycus and Alecto Carrow's tyranny had been lead and coordinated by Dumbledore's Army, a group founded and trained by Harry Potter himself.

Harry pushed away his empty bowl, lent back in his chair and sighed. It was obvious that the majority of his dreams were simply his anxieties about the future manifesting themselves, but the meaning of the final part of each dream eluded him.

Rather than a seeming insight into the future, each dream ended with a scene from Harry's life - the confrontation with Professor Quirrell, facing off against Slytherin's basilisk, duelling Voldemort in the graveyard, fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries.

The one difference in each of these situations was that unlike what had actually occurred, in his dreams he was Master of Death, armed with all three of the Deathly Hallows. With these powerful tools to aid him, the dreams played out rather differently than what had happened in reality.

Rather than rolling around clawing at Professor Quirrell's burning face like eleven-year-old Harry had, Dream-Harry had slipped Ignotus's cloak on before passing through the enchanted flames, crept up behind the possessed professor and hit him squarely in the back with a blasting curse that had turned the top half of Quirrell's body into a bloody smear, slowly dripping down the front of the Mirror of Erised.

Upon entering the Chamber of Secrets, Dream-Harry had summoned a shade of Salazar Slytherin using Cadmus's stone to distract the basilisk, before impaling the vast beast on a host of conjured, stone spikes rising from the floor.

When faced off against a newly-resurrected Voldemort in the Little Hangleton graveyard, Dream-Harry simply raised Antioch's wand and unleashed hell. Voldemort was forced to watch on in dismay as every Death Eater that had answered his summons was cut down, most permanently, before Dream-Harry turned the wand on him and a fierce duel broke out with Dream-Harry slowly forcing Voldemort backwards until his back was up against the tombstone of his late father. Once there, Dream-Harry bound Voldemort to the tombstone before forcing him to watch as each of his Horcruxes was destroyed before his eyes, and finally as Dream-Harry cast a Killing Curse at him.

Harry was distinctly unsure what these parts of his dreams were trying to tell him, not to mention the new inclusion in last nights dream - the scene by the river. Harry was certain he had never seen that river before, nor the man that had seemed to follow him from scene to scene. He couldn't make any sense of what the scarred man had said which just added to his frustration.

Harry sighed again as he stood up, deciding to heed Dumbledore's advice and not dwell on his dreams. He actually planned to leave the house today - not to see anyone, but an improvement nevertheless. He wanted to revisit the graves of his parents, this time not polyjuiced to look like a random muggle and without having to constantly look over his shoulder for Death Eaters.

And so Harry trudged back upstairs to take a shower, mentally running through a checklist in his head of the things he wanted to take with him to Godric's Hollow.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_

 _Next chapter: Godric's Hollow_


	4. Godric's Hollow

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its locations/characters._

* * *

5th May, 1998 AD - Godric's Hollow

Harry whistled to himself tunelessly as turned away from the memorial commemorating his parents' deaths and began strolling down the single street that made up Godric's Hollow. It was hardly even a village Harry mused, just a single row of houses with the single spire of St Jerome's Church just visible at the opposite end to where he was, nestled right in the heart of Prescombe Down National Nature Reserve. There wasn't a single shop (not even a pub or post office) and so residents would often take the fifteen-minute walk to the nearby town of Fovant or make the longer drive into Salisbury for their weekly shop.

Harry tried recalling the various facts Hermione had rattled off to him regarding Godric's Hollow when they were both preparing to come here last Christmas. He knew that Godric Gryffindor had been born here sometime in the middle of the 10th century, meaning Gryffindor's parents were some of the first to settle here as the church had only been built a decade or so previously. The village was only named after Gryffindor sometime after the International Statute of Secrecy was ratified in 1689 - the large influx of witches and wizards deciding that the village should be more appropriately named. Despite this, the village continued to maintain a mixed population of both magical and muggle, something that remains true till this day.

Harry slowly strolled down the pavement, enjoying the spring sunshine and making a game of trying to guess whether each house was occupied by wizards or muggles. Some were rather easy - he could sense the wards surrounding some of the magical homes and one even had an old Comet 260 leaning on the wall outside the front door - whereas some were irritatingly difficult. He was just judging the latest house, which looked like it had recently undergone some repair work based on the newly painted window frames and brickwork that had yet to be stained by prolonged exposure to the West Country sun, when he realised with a start that this was Bathilda Bagshot's former residence.

Someone had obviously come along and fixed the place up, Harry thought with a twinge of guilt when he remembered that he and Hermione had caused most of the damage during their fight with Nagini. He debated crossing the road and peering through one of the ground-floor windows but decided against it, not knowing who had actually restored the house. He seemed to remember Hermione mentioning that Bathilda had no living relatives left in Britain, so assumed that the house had been seized by the government and sold at auction after her death. It was a shame really, he thought, that Britain's most celebrated magical historian had met her end in such an undignified way - old, decrepit and confused to the point where she had been tricked into spilling all her secrets to Rita Skeeter before being murdered by Voldemort and having her corpse defiled with dark magic.

He sighed and turned away from the house, determined not to dwell on such sombre topics. He ambled away towards the church, not noticing the single pair of eyes watching him from between a gap in the curtains on the first floor of Bathilda's old home.

After a couple more minutes of walking, he arrived at St Jerome's, letting himself into the graveyard via a rusted iron gate. He strode over to his parents' graves quickly, thankful that he didn't need to search the entire graveyard in freezing conditions this time. He silently vanished the remains of the wreath Hermione had left and conjured a new bouquet of flowers, not remembering the Charms lesson where Professor Flitwick had taught them how to shape the flowers into a wreath.

Having done this, Harry dropped down onto the neatly trimmed grass and simply began talking. The privacy of the graveyard gave him the perfect excuse to do what he wished he could've done so many times in his short - talk with his parents. Almost, anyway.

He told them about the end of the war, Ron and Hermione's new relationship, the state of the Ministry and of all his worries and concerns about what he was going to do next.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting to happen when he finally fell silent. The cold, marble tombstone offered no real answers. He could still feel the weight he carried around on his shoulders, worries and fears of what was expected of him next. He sighed, climbed to his feet and slowly made his way out of the graveyard.

Just as he was about to leave, another tombstone caught his eye. It was right in the corner of the graveyard, the area where the oldest tombstones resided. He quickly strode over to it, and once he was there instantly realised why it had stood out to him.

 _Ignotus Peverell_ \- he could just about make out the name and the symbol representing the Deathly Hallows above it. There was some other text below the name, but centuries of exposure to the elements had rendered it unreadable.

"It's interesting, is it not, that a simple tombstone can pose so many questions?" a voice suddenly asked from behind him.

Harry spun around instantly, wand flying into his hand from his wrist-holster and a curse on his lips. An elderly man was stood there, looking on with an amused look on his face at Harry's reaction.

"Peace, Mr Potter. I have no intention of duelling you." the man said, slowly raising both arms out to the side of his body to show that he was unarmed. He spoke with a slight accent, but not one Harry was familiar with.

Harry took this opportunity to look more closely at the man. Wispy, white hair clung to the sides and back of his head, leaving a bald dome on top. Deep blue eyes gazed out from below bushy eyebrows, the only noteworthy feature on a face creased and wrinkled with age. He was wearing a short-sleeved, white shirt tucked into a pair of dark grey slacks.

"You know who I am?" questioned Harry, slowing sliding his wand back into its holster.

"Is that really surprising, Mr Potter? Considering the events of the last year, and the last week in particular, I'd be amazed if there was a single witch or wizard in Britain that didn't recognise you. Rita Skeeter's coverage in the _Daily Prophet_ has been especially... enlightening," the man replied, his looking of amusement growing.

Harry couldn't help but scowl at this, as he was fully aware of what Rita had been writing. Gone were the days where she had portrayed him an attention-seeking liar, now he was the man that had obliterated Voldemort and saved Britain with a single spell.

Keen to move away from this topic of conversation and wipe that stupid smirk off the man's face, Harry decided to start asking some questions of his own.

"I'm sorry sir, but I didn't catch your name," Harry said.

"You can call me... Gilbert, Mr Potter," answered the man, "Gilbert Green of Godric's Hollow, at your service."

"Please Gilbert, call me Harry. From what you said, can I take it that you know who is buried beneath this tombstone?" questioned Harry.

"Of course, Harry. After all, what scholar of the Deathly Hallows worth his salt isn't familiar with the empty grave of Ignotus Peverell?" acknowledged Gilbert.

Harry immediately tensed upon hearing this, and even considered drawing his wand again. _How much does this man know?_

Almost as if he could read Harry's thoughts, Gilbert immediately went to reassure him "Do not worry, Harry. I'll admit that in my youth I did actively seek out the Hallows - who would turn down the chance to gain mastery over death? Alas, I have long made peace with the fact that they aren't meant for me. I've lived a long life, and am hopeful that when I am confronted with death I will greet it as an old friend, as Beedle so eloquently describes it in his interpretation of the story."

"So... erm... you know that I _may_ happen to have some of the Hallows in my possession?" Harry asked nervously.

"Well I assume you are in possession of the cloak, it is your birthright after all. It has long been assumed by Hallows scholars that the cloak had been passed down through the generations, meaning that due to Iolanthe Peverell's marriage to Hardwin Potter that your family were now in possession of it. I also noticed that in one of the photos the _Daily Prophet_ published moments after your victory that you were holding a wand that looked remarkably like the sketch that can be found in Godelot's handwritten, original version of _Magick Moste Evile_ concerning the Elder Wand. Scholars agree that Godelot came into possession of the wand around a century after Egbert the Egregious killed Emeric the Evil. I must confess that I do not know if you are in possession of Cadmus's stone - throughout history, it has proven to be the most elusive of the three - but considering the miraculous stories that have emerged since the Battle of Hogwarts, particularly the one where you managed to convince Lord Voldemort that you were truly dead, I suppose I would not be _that_ amazed to find out that you had managed to reunite the Hallows." explained Gilbert.

"Well, yeah. I may have accidentally become Master of Death shortly before confronting Voldemort," admitted Harry, "What did you mean when you said _'the empty grave of Ignotus Peverell'_ ? Is he not actually buried here?"

"Incredible," chuckled Gilbert, "Scholars have spent centuries trying to reunite the Deathly Hallows, and you manage to do it unintentionally. Anyway, the answer to your questions regarding Ignotus's grave requires some historical context I'm afraid. You see Harry, the act of burying someone and marking their grave with a tombstone - like the one we see before us - didn't come into practice in Britain until Christianity started to spread here, around the 7th century. We don't know exactly when the Peverell brothers were alive, but most estimates put them at around the year 100 AD, centuries before we used tombstones to mark the resting places of our dead. Back then, the dead would be covered in a raised mound of earth, more commonly known as a barrow. We don't know the exact location of Ignotus's remains, only that they aren't here. Believe me, this grave has been excavated numerous time by those seeking the Hallows and it has always been empty. It isn't known why exactly this tombstone was placed here if there wasn't a body, but it's assumed that one of Ignotus's descendants, your ancestor, simply wanted to commemorate one of the more famous members of your family." clarified Gilbert.

Harry pondered this new information, not really sure what to make of it. He wondered whether he had made the right decision in refusing to wield the Hallows, preferring to leave the wand and the stone hidden at Hogwarts. He couldn't deny the temptation he felt, almost like an itch he couldn't scratch, to retrieve the objects and see just how powerful they made him. He thought back on the dreams he had been having, and the absurd ease at which he had overcome various challenges in them. _Would it really be wrong to use that power to help rebuild Britain? Or was it simply too much power for anyone to wield responsibly?_

"Gilbert, since becoming Master of Death I've been having these strange dreams - reliving situations in my life where the Hallows would've come in handy. Do you know why?" asked Harry, deciding to see if the knowledgeable scholar could shine any light on them.

Gilbert paused a moment, a look of contemplation crossing his face. "Well, I must admit that dream interpretation has never been a strength of mine - or any branch of Divination really - but there are several records throughout history of wielders of the Elder Wand experiencing dreams and visions. I assume your dreams will be an extension of that, exacerbated perhaps by the fact that you are in possession of all three Hallows. Have you done anything particularly spectacular with the Hallows since you reunited them?"

"Well... here's the thing..." Harry began, frantically trying to think of a way he could justify hiding the Hallows to a man that had seemingly devoted a large proportion of his life to their finding, "I don't actually have them anymore, apart from the cloak. I hid the wand and the stone so others wouldn't find them."

"What? What would possess you to do that?" spluttered Gilbert incredulously.

"I don't want them! I have absolutely no use for that sort of power, not anymore anyway. That sort of power can change someone, and rarely for the better. I'm through with being special. I don't want any unnatural powers, or the responsibilities and expectations that will inevitably come with it when people find out I have them." Harry shot back, the frustrations of the past few days bubbling close to the surface.

"You seem confused Harry. What are you really scared of? The _responsibilities_ of being handed immense power or the _consequences_ of what could happen if you misuse it?" challenged Gilbert.

"Neither. Both. I don't know!" bemoaned Harry, "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I let the power corrupt me, like Voldemort?"

"Harry, I'm going to speak plainly. I apologise in advance if I offend a national hero." began Gilbert, "Every idea you have about power is _wrong_. If it was power on its own that made us evil then the human race would never have made it out of our caves. The real danger isn't power, it's _fear_. Fear is the ultimate corrupter of man - fear of death, fear of failure, fear of rejection. Humans are weak, so we let our fears rule us. We let them twist and distort our personalities until we are unrecognisable, cowardly echoes of our former selves capable of unimaginable horrors. I was under the assumption that you were sorted into Gryffindor, Harry Potter. The house of the chivalrous, the noble, the _brave_. Are you really going to let your shortsighted fears decide your future for you? Hideaway in your mansion hoping the world moves on without you? I'm afraid it doesn't work like that Harry. None of us _really_ get to decide what parts we play in this life - Fate rolls her dice and we simply fall into place. Burying your head in the sand hoping that the forces that rule our universe will forget about you won't work. I don't believe it's mere coincidence that after thousands of scholars have dedicated their lives to finding the Hallows that you manage to reunite them minutes before vanquishing Voldemort. You were meant to wield the Hallows, there is no question about it. The sooner you realise this, the sooner you can get on with your life."

"So what, I don't even get a choice in the matter?" Harry moaned petulantly, not really caring if he sounded childish.

The look of amusement reappeared on Gilbert's face. "If the higher powers have chosen you to be their instrument Harry, then it is undoubtedly in your best interests to comply. Of course, no one can force you to recollect the Hallows, but I think if you truly look inside yourself, you will realise that this is for the best. I must confess that I overheard some of your soliloquy by your parents' graves. The solution seems obvious to me - you don't know what to do with your life, and here you are with a golden opportunity. Take up the Hallows, and see where they lead you. If your intentions remain pure and your fears remain conquered, then I do not believe you will regret this."

Harry paused and considered this. Gilbert made some good points - if he was going to be forced to wield some measure of responsibility in this new world, then surely it would be better to go for the abstract, magical kind then some bullshit political position.

He sighed, knowing what he would have to do next, and more annoyingly, where he would have to return. He looked back at Gilbert, debating how to thank him for his words of wisdom when a better idea popped into his head. Gilbert had apparently spent his entire life searching in vain for the Hallows, surely he would appreciate a quick look at them.

"Hey Gilbert, do you have any plans this afternoon?" asked Harry, smiling as Gilbert shook his head, "How would you feel about accompanying me on a quick trip to Hogwarts - I believe there are a couple of my possessions there that I need to retrieve."

* * *

 _According to the Harry Potter wiki, the Peverell brothers all lived around the 12th century. I've obviously changed this for my story._

 _Next Chapter: Firenze's Warning_


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